A Delicious Possibility

The city was beginning to sleep by the time I got home.

Not quiet exactly. Cities never really get quiet – especially on a Saturday night. They just soften around the edges. The crowded restaurants have emptied. The bar scene begins to thin out. Ubers and Lyfts drift through the streets, carrying their tired, loopy passengers to their final destination. Which may or may not be home.

It was for me. The small studio that was just fine for me. For now. My jacket lands on the back of a chair. My keys hit the counter. And the kitchen light clicks on. It always clicks on.

There’s a particular Saturday night, actually now Sunday morning, ritual that I’ve always enjoyed. A little snack from whatever was in the fridge and a tall glass of water. This time it was leftover fusilli with chopped tomato and garlic. Nothing special, but still absolutely delicious. Even cold. Even right from the pan.

After all, who needs a bowl at this hour?

Through the open window, I hear my neighbors switch off their music. A dinner party? Maybe just a casual night at home. My refrigerator hums steadily next to me. White noise for my thoughts to develop.

My thoughts of her.

The night started ordinarily enough. A few friends. A crowded bar. One more round than originally planned.

Nothing remarkable. Until she sat down next to me. Maybe it was the next table. The small details are already becoming hazy. But not the ones of her.

Those remain clear. Almost frustratingly clear. Her smile. Her laugh and the way she laughed before she finished telling a story. How she seemed truly interested in what everyone had to say.

Funny how quickly a stranger can stop feeling like one.

I take another bite of pasta and watch my phone light up. The group chat. Complete with photos from the night. A blurry picture of the table. A rather unflattering candid. A video nobody remembers taking. I scan them all looking for her.

Was she interested? Did she laugh because she thought I was funny? Or was she just being polite? Maybe I’m rewriting the story. Impossible to know.

I think about calling her. But who calls anymore. Maybe a casual text. Maybe tomorrow. Or do I wait until Monday?

I suddenly find myself smiling. Not because anything happened.

But because something might.